


Hands

by Katzedecimal



Series: Touched [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Holding Hands, Intimacy, M/M, Romantic Friendship, Schmoop, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The human hand is a work of art and a wonder of evolution.  And its power can take one by surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

There are twenty seven bones in the human hand. He knows this because he's counted them all. People liked to say, _I know this like I know the back of my hand_ , but how many people **really** knew the backs of their hands? How many people **really** thought about their hands at all?

Sherlock Holmes was thinking about the hands of Dr. John Watson. Those hands moved gracefully, fluidly, as he stitched up the gash on Sherlock's arm. John's hands demonstrated an elegance of fine motor control as he gripped the forceps that pulled the tiny curved needle from the flesh, passing the filament around itself with the grace of a lacemaker, tying in a manner that would allow the suture to flex as the wound swelled and healed. Sherlock would submit to no other hands to doctor his wounds, for only John's clever stitches would heal to thread-thin lines, barely visible. Some didn't scar at all. 

Dr. John Watson was thinking about the hands of Sherlock Holmes, how the cut travelling across the dorsal side was clotting well but would still benefit from some tissue glue and a few butterfly closures. The back of Sherlock's hand would have a new feature, he thought as he cleansed the wound and taped it. 

The hands of John Watson were making tea, pouring it into two deep mugs, one of which he passed to Sherlock. The hands of Sherlock Holmes curled gratefully around the warm mug and he sipped the fragrant liquid then skootched over on the chesterfield. He watched John's hands as he flipped on the telly. 

John watched Sherlock's hands as they brought the mug to his lips again. When he'd set the mug down, John took one and held it cupped in his own. Gently he felt around the swollen knuckles, probing with great consideration. He appeared to be listening to his fingertips as they prodded carefully. Soon he was satisfied that they were not damaged, only bruised. He traced his finger along a bulging vein, noting the elevated blood pressure, then lightly curled his fingers around Sherlock's wrist, to take his pulse.

The hands are the richest source of tactile sensation in the human body. The fingertips contain more nerve endings than any other organ, including the genitals, making them the most sensitive part of the body. Sherlock knows this; it's one of the reasons why he wears gloves. He can feel the texture of the suede interior, soft and comforting, the closeness of the leather snug about each finger, pressing against his palms. He tents his fingertips when he's thinking, feeling the tiny ridges of his fingerprints. He could feel the tiny ridges of John's fingerprints as he pressed the tips of Sherlock's fingers, testing for nerve damage from previous tendon injuries. Then John traced along a faint scar, feeling a faint flush of pride at the presentation of his previous work. Sherlock was proud to wear John's craftsmanship. If he was at the clinic when someone needed stitches, he was always happy to roll up his sleeves to display John's handiwork. 

The history of John Watson's life was written on his hands. A thickening on his finger showed where his pen habitually rested when he wrote; knuckles showed the slight malformations of bruising and breaking from repeated fisticuffs -- old, old wounds, likely from boyhood. And there were scars. Sherlock reached to trace a particularly thick one, perfectly straight, that ran diagonally down John's fingertip and into the quick of his nail. It looked... old-ish, not yet sunken, but not recent. Carefully he lifted the interesting digit to follow the path of the slash around to the palm side, tracing it lightly with his fingertip. _Surgical slice,_ he thought, _Scalpel slipped during surgery, wound developed infection._

"Got that in Afghanistan," John confirmed, all unknowing, "Up to my wrists in a bloke trying to hold him together while another surgeon tried to work." Sherlock smiled and gently pressed the button of flesh at the base of John's finger, feeling the spring of it. 

There were many small, irregular scars all over the backs of John's hands, and a deep pit near the web of his thumb. _Shrapnel. An explosion. A piece got imbedded, probably abcessed._ "A bomb went off. I covered my face, like this," John demonstrated, "A bit got stuck under the skin, couldn't get to it for quite a while so it got infected." Sherlock smiled again and stroked the fine mesh of scars, fingertip lightly circling the abcess scar.

John felt his face growing warm. 

Sherlock Holmes stormed through life with all the power and subtlety of a tornado, yet his hands were the gentlest John had ever known. He stroked each scar with the lightness of a butterfly's wing. The fingers have the highest concentration of nerves in the body, a fact John was reminded of as each delicate touch sent shivers shooting down his spine. He closed his eyes as he felt Sherlock's thumb press gently into the heel of his own thumb, pressing the muscle there, feeling the sinew, feeling the strength in John's hands. 

John swallowed and opened his eyes. The new cut across the back of Sherlock's hand was swelling, so John turned the hand to examine the stitches for strain, his fingers resting lightly near the wound. He noted the signs of bone damage on Sherlock's knuckles from repeated bruising and breakages, so many years of using his hands as, oh, crowbars, sledgehammers, weapons, things of that nature. _Arthritis in his future, most likely,_ John thought. 

Fewer scars decorated the hands of Sherlock Holmes. John found himself tracing down the tracks of some he recognised as scalpel cuts, and one he recognised as the skitter of an edged weapon. Gently probing fingers found a dip in one metacarpal, where the bone had broken and not been set quite straight. _Probably pain him later in life, if not already._ John thought, and made a mental note to watch for any indications. Not that it was easy to tell when Sherlock was hurting. _Blood pressure still high,_ he noted, tracing his fingertips along the still-swollen veins, _Pulse still elevated._ He glanced up at Sherlock, whose eyes were dialated in the lower light of the sitting room, lips still swollen from chewing at them while John had worked his embroidery. He smiled at Sherlock, feeling shy for reasons he didn't quite understand, then impulsively linked his fingers through the other man's and squeezed lightly. 

Sherlock smiled back, with that soft little smile that seemed equally shy. He squeezed back, just as lightly, then ran his thumb lightly over John's, noting the details of the knuckles, the depth of muscle covering the bones. The pad of his thumb skimmed around the quick of John's thumbnail, feeling the ragged cuticle, noting a developing hangnail, sliding around to feel the smooth edge of the nail. Another squeeze, fingertips pressing lightly into the hollows between John's knuckles, then Sherlock's thumb was slipping along the side of John's index finger, feeling the skin rough and dry from the constant use of sanitiser and medical gloves. 

John lifted his fingers to withdraw them, then slowed. He paused with his fingertips resting on Sherlock's, tenting their hands together. He could feel the other man's pulse through his fingertips. _Heart rate still elevated,_ he thought. He glanced up at Sherlock and noted that the warmth in the room had coloured his cheeks. If he didn't know better, he'd think Sherlock Holmes was blushing. His eyes were still dialated, fixed on the way their palms drew slowly together until they pressed against each other, perfectly mated. Then he glanced at John. 

Time slowed. Seconds thickened into molasses and awareness narrowed until nothing existed but the thunder of heartbeats, the dryness of throats and the press of hands. And the depth of eyes, stripping away defences, leaving only vulnerability. John swallowed, distantly registering that Sherlock's respiration was much faster and shallower than usual. _Must be hurting,_ the thought skated by, blown like a leaf on the tension that was drawing them towards each other. _Too warm in here,_ another thought spiralled past. Pretty soon he'd have to take off his jumper...

The phone rang, shattering the moment and jerking time forward again with enough force to cause them both to jump. It took several confused seconds to figure out whose phone it was. His phone felt cold in John's hands and he was momentarily fascinated by how slick it felt against his fingers as he thumbed it on, "Hello? Yes, yes it is..." After a few minutes, he cut the call and turned to look at Sherlock, "It's Mrs. Turner next door. She's taken a fall and wants me to come take a look at her knee." He sounded slightly disappointed to himself and didn't know quite why.

"Of course. You're a good doctor. It's what you do best." And didn't know why Sherlock sounded slightly disappointed as well. 

"Right. Well... right," John said, feeling like he was flailing. "There's pain killers in the bathroom when the freezing wears off."

"I know."

"..Right. So... I'll be back in a bit then." Silence answered him. Sherlock lay back on the sofa, tenting his fingers. He brought them to his lips and closed his eyes. 

John turned to leave the flat, and tried to stop the shiver in his hands.


End file.
